Perfection in Red
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Oneshot. To Daryl, the woman in red was absolute perfection.


**AN: This is just a little one shot for therealsonia that wanted something with "woman in red." I hope it's something like she wanted.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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"It's really a waste of time," Carol said. "Nothing is going to work."

Michonne and Andrea, sitting side by side on their bed, stared at her. Beside Andrea, near the head of the bed, was a pile of dresses that was ever-growing as they pulled first one and then another out of the closet in their spare bedroom and brought it into the room for Carol to try. If they kept on this way, the pile would be taller than either of the women.

"It's not working because you're not _letting_ it work," Michonne said. "You're over thinking it. You're over criticizing everything!"

"She always does," Andrea said. "You always do."

"They just aren't _right_ ," Carol said. "They don't fit right. They don't look right."

"If there were two dresses here for you to pick from," Andrea said, "then I'd accept that. If they were just _my_ dresses, I'd accept that. But Michonne and I, together, have been to just about every formal occasion that this town has had to offer in the last ten years. Carol there's every kind of dress here that you could think of. You've got to at least think _one_ of these dresses is nice."

"I think they're _all nice_ ," Carol said. She didn't want them to think that she was ungrateful, because she really wasn't. "They're all beautiful dresses. It's just they're meant for someone else. Someone..."

"They're meant for a woman who wants to get dressed up and go out in a dress that ranges from just a bit over casual to super formal," Michonne said, cutting Carol off. "They're beautiful dresses that were made to make a beautiful woman feel even more beautiful. So which one is it that you think is the most beautiful? Which one is your _fantasy_?"

Carol frowned at the stack of dresses. They were all beautiful. She probably wouldn't have had such a wide choice of dresses if she'd gone to one of the boutiques in town to buy a special one for the evening—something she'd never do. If she desired a given color, it was accounted for. If it was a certain cut, she could surely find it. Every dress, too, came with the guarantee of a pair of suitable shoes that could be found somewhere in Andrea's side of the closet—shoes that would fit Carol with just enough room to keep her from feeling like she wanted to amputate her feet before the night was over.

But none of them were right because every time she put one of them on—beautiful on the hanger and everything she might hope it would be—a voice that she'd thought was dead and buried rose up in her mind to remind her that she simply wasn't the kind of woman that should be wearing such things.

"They're beautiful," Carol reiterated.

"Great," Andrea said, getting to her feet again. "So—which one do you want to try on again? Because we've only got an hour or so to get you ready. You don't want to keep him waiting. You don't want him to think that you just decided not to show up."

Carol shook her head, first at Andrea and then at Michonne.

"They're beautiful but they just don't look right on me," Carol said. "I'm not shaped right for them. I don't have that kind of figure."

She didn't miss that Michonne rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Some of those dresses fit you better than they ever fit either of us," Michonne said. "And both of us got our share of compliments in all of them."

Andrea laughed and let the final lingering smile of the laugh go in Michonne's direction.

"If I remember correctly," she teased, "we broke a few hearts too when we said we weren't looking for anyone to take us home."

"That's you," Carol said. "It isn't me. If I go out in one of these? Everyone's going to think I look ridiculous."

"Not everyone," Michonne said. "Not anyone who matters. Come on, Carol. Close your eyes. Don't look at the dresses. Just—think about what you would like the best. What would be the perfect dress? The perfect _feeling_? What do you want him to see when he sees you tonight? Let us handle the rest."

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Daryl had finally taken a seat at the bar of the restaurant because his feet, displeased by his new shoes, were killing him. He readjusted his tie one more time in an effort to keep it from cutting off his oxygen supply and he straightened his jacket once more.

He'd pulled out _all_ the stops tonight. He had only been this dressed up a handful of times in his life before. It never felt natural.

"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" The bartender asked, approaching Daryl.

Daryl glanced at the man and shook his head. He cleared his throat, concerned that the tie really might be cutting off his oxygen and might make his voice harder to get out.

"No," Daryl said. "No. I mean—no, _thank you_. Waiting for someone and I've already ordered champagne for the table."

"Very well," the bartender said. "Would you be more comfortable waiting at your table? I could have you seated."

"Do I look _that_ uncomfortable here?" Daryl asked, laughing to himself.

The bartender looked like he wasn't sure how to respond. The old man probably worked on tips and he was probably concerned that, no matter what he said, he wasn't getting a tip out of Daryl at all. To ease the whole thing, Daryl dipped his hand in his pocket and produced a bill that he passed to the man.

"You look very comfortable, sir," the man said with a smile. "I only meant that you might _want_ to sit at the table."

Daryl shook his head at the man.

"No," he said. "I wanna see her. When she walks in. I can see the door from here. I don't wanna miss the way she looks when she walks in."

The older man smiled somewhat knowingly and nodded his head at Daryl.

"Very well," he said. "I hope your lady friend is everything you're hoping."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"She will be," Daryl assured him. "I got a real good feeling about it."

And he _did_ have a good feeling about it. He might not have a very good feeling about the jacket or the pants. He might doubt that he'd chosen his tie well or that the belt and the shoes were really the right color for the outfit. He might be a little worried that his barber had trimmed his hair a little too short and that the grey stood out in his beard a little too much. He might even be concerned that she wasn't going to love the restaurant, even though everyone in town raved about it.

But the one thing he wasn't worried about was whether or not Carol was going to be everything he wanted her to be.

He knew her the moment she walked in the door. The moment he saw enough of her shape to confirm that it was her, his heartbeat kicked up a notch. He stood up at the bar and watched her.

She was searching for him. She hadn't found him yet. He watched as she glanced over the people around her—the place was always crowded—with her brow furrowed. He saw the moment of concern on her features that came with the unfounded worry that he wouldn't be there—that for some reason he might not show up when she knew, if she really thought about it, that he _would show up_. He saw the quick and fake smile that she gave the host when he greeted her. He saw it fade as she glanced once more around her in search of Daryl. It returned as she addressed the host. She gave the man her name and she watched him as he searched his book for her reservation.

Daryl didn't know much about fashion, but Carol's dress was beautiful. It was red. It was cut low in the front, though not too daring to be suitable for nearly any establishment, and it ended just a little above her knees. Daryl thought it was the red dress of every man's fantasy.

It looked better on her than it ever had in a fantasy, though, because Carol was _real_.

Daryl liked watching her. He liked seeing the other men that were looking at her—drinking her in. He liked knowing that many of them would have liked to sit across from her and watch the reflection of the candlelight flicker in her eyes. He liked knowing they wanted her—and with good reason—because she was a beautiful woman.

But more than anything, he liked knowing that she would never even know that they were looking. She would deny, when he told her about it, that they were. She'd swear that he was making it up.

She never saw them because she was only looking for _him_. And once she found him, the game over, she would only be looking _at_ him.

The host took Carol's arm and started to lead her toward the table. Daryl left his place at the bar and quickly stepped walked toward the table. He saw the host as he reached the table with Carol and lit the candles to set the scene for her. He saw the expression on Carol's face as she thought, once more and always without reason, that he might not have come.

He always came, but the tiny voice of doubt had never left her entirely.

Daryl could love the voice into temporary silence, but he couldn't do away with it completely. And he understood—he had his own voices.

Daryl saw her face change, too, when he finally caught up with her. The smile that she gave him was different than the fake one she'd offered the host. It was real. It was beautiful.

 _She was beautiful._

Daryl could barely breathe and he might as well have been trying to swallow briars for all the ease he found in the activity. Before he said anything, Daryl offered the host a tip. Whether it was customary or not, he was tipping for everything. He wanted the night to go perfectly and he knew that being on the good side of the staff would surely ease that along.

Then he stepped behind Carol's chair and pulled it out.

She offered him the smile again and she took her seat, allowing him to slide her chair in before she reached and brushed his hand with her fingertips. Daryl took his own seat and was barely settled before the waiter appeared to pour the champagne that Daryl had ordered earlier. He stepped away the moment the beverage was poured, and Daryl reached across the table to take Carol's hand. She obliged him and let him hold her fingers trapped in his.

Daryl cleared his throat.

"You look..." He started.

"Ridiculous?" Carol asked, quickly putting a stop to Daryl's attempt at complimenting her.

"Beautiful," Daryl said, ignoring her efforts to stop him.

Her cheeks blushed pink in the candlelight.

"You look very handsome," she said.

"I _feel_ ridiculous," Daryl offered. "But I've been told I clean up alright."

He smirked at Carol and winked at her when she smiled at him.

"You always do," she said.

"Andrea's or Michonne's?" Daryl asked. Carol raised her eyebrows at him. "Whose perfume?" Daryl asked. "Because it's not your usual scent."

"Andrea's," Carol said. "The dress already smelled like it. I thought—it wouldn't clash this way."

"Nice," Daryl said. "I like it."

"Would you want me to change? I could find out what kind it is," Carol said.

Daryl laughed to himself and shook his head.

"No," he said. "Don't change nothing."

"Champagne?" Carol asked.

"Pulled out all the stops," Daryl said. "Wanted the night to be perfect. Just like you."

The corners of Carol's lips curled slightly. The compliment made her uncomfortable—she never knew how to take them—but she didn't turn it down. Not tonight.

"Big night?" She asked, raising her eyebrows at him to tease him a little.

Daryl swallowed around his choking tie and nodded his head. He rolled his next line around in his head a few times to make sure it sounded like he wanted it to sound and wouldn't come out quite as stuttered and cheesy as he feared it might.

He'd never felt good with words. Still, his words always seemed to flatter Carol. They always seemed to make her smile or blush. In her sincere appreciation of them, Daryl found the confidence to keep saying them no matter how much his own inner voice criticized his delivery.

"Biggest night," Daryl said. "Not every night a man can say he's lucky enough to celebrate fifteen years of marriage with the most beautiful woman in Georgia."

Carol smiled at him, reassuring him as she always would, and squeezed his fingers in hers.

"Not every night," she said, raising her eyebrows at him, "a woman can say she's spent fifteen years married the most wonderful _man_ in Georgia."

Daryl laughed to himself. He was no better at taking compliments than Carol. He licked his lips quickly and smirked at her.

"Where the hell is he?" Daryl asked. "Wanna make sure he don't come over here—looking for somebody new. Some—perfect woman in a red dress. I'm not dressed to fight."

Carol looked genuinely amused at his sorry attempt at a joke. She shook her head at him.

"You never will," she said, not as much of a joking tone to her voice as he was using at the moment. "Not for me."

Daryl nodded at her and she dropped his hand before she took up her menu. He watched her as she squinted at the letters, still too proud to admit in public that she needed the reading glasses she wore at home. She was beautiful even when she squinted.

She always thought that he was doing her a favor—staying married to her all these years, making sure that every year they had a special dinner for their anniversary, offering her compliments every time he was able to think of one that he didn't think was the worst sounding thing ever. No matter how much he told her otherwise, she'd never believe him.

She was Daryl's dream come to life. The closest thing to perfection that he could ever imagine. He'd told her for fifteen years, but she would never believe him. So Daryl figured, for however long they had, he'd just have to keep telling her.

Eventually, after all, she might just believe him.


End file.
